Memoir Prose 9

It’s not dawn officially, but the sky glows a dark bright blue. The cat came to me for scratches, lifting her back against my fingers and leaving fine fur hairs beneath my nails, I checked on you before placing my pod in the coffee maker. I’m up early, which means there’s no excuse not to practice some yoga today. I’ll start with some mindfulness. A deep breath, stand by the door to let the cat out, cool air streaming in while counting birds chirping.

Although I have this restless excitement to wake you up at dawn, I will let you sleep today. You have a rough little snore and you’re tired to the bone. And as I sit here, typing these messages as a love poem to you on my phone, I begin to reflect. You made it a surprise yesterday where we were going for dinner, two sandwiches from Millie’s and a drive up the mountain to beneath the pavilion.

In a world of countless hearts, you are one in a million, Jay--

a quiet kind of rare

that shows itself in everyday ways.

Thank you for all that you do

for the care you give so freely

for sitting beside me at the doctor’s office

like it was exactly where you meant to be.

When I’m home and you’re at work,

and the hours stretch a little too blue,

your cat curls close like a promise--

a small part of you showing through.

And I tell you in those quiet moments,

as you settle in warm and true,

that one day when your steps grow slower

I’ll be the one to take care of you too.

She grows softer with the years--

and smaller too

but gentler in the way

morning light rests on her shoulders.

Her hair falls as it wishes now,

no longer held too tightly in place,

and her eyes speak clearer truths

with less need for shadow or line.

She wears her comfort like a quiet crown--

loose sleeves, soft steps,

a ponytail that sways with her laughter,

unbothered by who may be watching.

In the mornings, there is coffee--

steam rising between her and the day,

her mud claiming. “I’m the Boss”

while the house hums in it’s familiar rhythm. She speaks her mind now,

not without worry,

but with fewer apologies left behind.

Regret has loosened its grip on her voice.

She moves love in small, sacred ways

curling Mary’s hair with careful hands,

bringing lunch to Arlene,

carrying tenderness like it’s second nature.

There is still dreaming in her bones--

plans sketched between sips of coffee,

gardens waiting beneath her fingertips,

spring rising wherever she stands.

She is laughter edged with mischief,

kindness wrapped in wit

a warmth that surprises you

with it’s quiet strength

And time, though it brushes past her,

does not take-- it softens,

leaving only silver whispers and stories in her wake.

If I am lucky,

I will grow into a life like hers--

rooted, radiant, and real,

where love is shown in the smallest moments

and carried for a lifetime.

My Dad has softened with time-

like a storm that learned how to rest,

like hands that once carried everything

now learning how to hold gently.

The moments I set with him feel heavier now,

not in weight, but in meaning.

Because I see what they cost him--

the long hours, the quiet sacrifices,

the way he gives his life away in pieces

so ours can feel whole.

He has a patience that feels endless,

a love that was never owed to me,

yet given freely.

He chose me--

not once, but over and over,

even when I made it hard

even when I filled our lives with shadows.

And still, he never let go.